


A Certain Kind of Man

by haemodye



Series: Here Comes A Candle [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, Guilt, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, John-centric, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Romance, not that much angst though I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haemodye/pseuds/haemodye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock's body is a tapestry of neglect, and for a moment John wonders how many people have stopped to try and take care of him, to patch him up when he was broken. </i>
</p><p>John isn't taking Sherlock's return quite the way either of them had hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fine Mess

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually completed, but I'm probably going to be staggering the chapters across three days. 
> 
> It _can_ be read as Gen if you so desire (or squint). This is way more depressing than I wanted it to be... I tried to find a way to end it differently but it just seemed to want to stay as it was so I let it do what it wanted. I'll try to put some art up for it at some point.

  
  
When John is eighteen his mother takes him out for his birthday: a quiet affair involving dinner and some sort of action movie. He doesn't remember most of the outing, but what he does remember is coming home for cake only to find his father passed out in the den, snoring loudly and shouting in his sleep. They spend the night on the stoop, voices hushed as they speak into the warm summer air. His mother's face is painted in the harsh yellow lamplight, the thin lines around her eyes and her mouth softened as she sips her tea and smiles into the mist. She looks unbearably young.

  
John stares at her for hours, listening to the soft sounds of her voice as she rambles about his coming of age: medicine, the future, his sister, the past. Harry stumbles in at four in the morning, lipstick smeared across the corners of her mouth, faded in the centre and rubbed into the grooves. Her eyes are dark as she pushes past them and ambles up the stairs. John's mother says nothing.  
  
"Why?" The word is out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He is too young to know better.  
  
His mother smiles and shakes her head, sleep clinging to the corners of her eyes. Moisture gathers along her lashes. "Some people are born heartbreakers; some are born to have their hearts broken. I always knew which kind I was, Johnny." She takes a sip of darjeeling, leaving space for him to respond. John does not know how, and she closes her eyes and turns her face towards the street. "In the end, you choose the heartbreak you can live with."   
  
John sees that Harry takes after their father; sometimes he wishes his life was that simple. But in twenty years John will wake up aching in a London flat and know exactly which kind he is, too.  
  
  
\----  
  
  
"I knew you'd turn up."  
  
John wants to laugh. Wants to shake him by the shoulders. All that intelligence, wasted.  
  
"This is how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."  
  
Sherlock's eyes are a dead-on tracer into his psyche; John can feel him poking around, working his fingers through the gears. He's too exasperated to be afraid; too foolish. "Why would I do that?"  
  
"'Cause you're an idiot."  
  
Sherlock smiles, the light of the sirens glowing off of his curls in a fair irony of a halo. He works his lips over to banish the expression, but John already has the image memorised. Shadows sharpen the stark lines of his face. "Dinner?"  
  
John bites back a wild laugh as Sherlock turns, already leading the way. He nods. "Starving."   
  
  
\----  
  
  
 _"I knew you'd turn up_."  
  
John has run it through in his mind a thousand times, and each time it makes less and less sense. John had just met him, shot a man for him, defended him against a drugs bust and felt like an idiot. What was it about Sherlock Holmes? He wonders if Sherlock was showing off, but that isn't quite it. There is a person Sherlock presents himself as, and then there is who he is. Sometimes John loses the line between the two; the Sherlock that made breakfast after John was stabbed and the blade scraped his scapula and the Sherlock that winked at him when they first met. Who is the Sherlock that dances like a trained professional, the detective on the case who learned the steps online or the public school boy who has known it since he was twelve? John cannot imagine Sherlock taking lessons in anything.   
  
The first time they met, Sherlock smiled and said thank you. Sherlock's phone works in the lab; he does not use niceties. He could have stolen the money for the flat if he wanted to. He could have made the money any number of ways. The little twist of his eyes at the end of his grandstanding, not quite exasperation: the way he spun away from the door. There is a man that Sherlock wants people to believe he is, or perhaps a social crutch that he uses to manipulate people. John wonders how often Sherlock uses it on him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Two months after Sherlock's miraculous resurrection, John comes home to find Sherlock sprawled across the couch, asleep, chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of his breathing. 

  
John nearly has a heart attack. He stands in the doorway to the living room for a full five minutes before he gets his breathing under control, before he remembers that Sherlock is not dead, that Mrs. Hudson is downstairs, and it's all fine. John is fine. Sherlock is  _fine_.  
  
Eventually John draws up the strength to move into the room, toeing off his shoes and running a hand over his mouth. There is white powder dusting Sherlock's hair, clinging to his fingertips and caught in his eyelashes. He looks like he has stumbled out of a snowdrift, and John stands over him for what feels like hours, examining the slow slope of his nose and the uncharacteristic softness around the eyes. He runs a hand through Sherlock's hair and brings it up to his face to examine in the dim light filtering in from the kitchen. Talcum powder. John lets out a soft sigh.   
  
"Did you think it was cocaine?"  
  
John startles at the dry, roughened voice, blinking down at his flatmate. Sherlock's eyes are black slits, brows creased with sleep and amusement. John reaches out to smooth the wrinkles from his face without thinking.   
  
"Go back to sleep," he replies, and Sherlock hums softly. He turns his back to John and curls into the sofa. After a moment John leaves and returns with a blanket. He tucks the corners in and turns off the lights.  
  
  
\----  
  
  
Sherlock is the kind of man who was meant to break hearts; spectacularly and completely, as with all things Holmesian - a red splatter across the inside of the clavicle and branching down the sternum. Sometimes John stares at pictures of him - snuck on holidays and while he slept, a bare handful of shots cataloguing their time together - and wonders at the sharp angles of him, the beauty of his mind and body set against the sharp contours of his psyche, his manic tangle of frustration, the way he slices people apart with his words. Sherlock collects broken hearts the way people preserve butterflies; Victor, Molly, Jim, Irene, packed away into newspaper clippings and the body parts he stores in the fridge. John thinks of a red splatter on pavement, blood branching out across the cracks of concrete and spilling down into the gutters. He wonders if he counts as part of the collection.   
  
Once, he wondered if Sherlock picked Barts to ensure that John would never forget him, but he knows that Sherlock is cleverer than that. John would not need a reminder.  
  
"You're still upset with me," he observes in December, voice pitched at careful disinterest.   
  
John looks up over the steam haze of his takeout box, shrimp halfway to his open mouth. Sherlock is bent wrong-side-up over the sofa, head hanging down against the carpet. His curls brush the floor as he taps a rhythm against the wallpaper with his toes.  
  
"It's nearly been four months," Sherlock adds helpfully. He turns to look at John, face struck strange upside down. "How long is it going to take?"   
  
John sets everything down on the coffee table and moves to sit next to him. Sherlock's hand wraps around his knee. All John can see of his face at this angle is the long line of his throat, broken by the sharp point of his Adam's apple and the clear line of his jaw. John braces his head against the back of the sofa and breathes deep.   
  
"We're okay," he murmurs, and Sherlock's hand tightens around him. "It's fine. It'll be fine."   
  
"Liar."  
  
John laughs. "Look who's talking." And then, softer, "Idiot."  
  
Sherlock's ankle rests to his left, a jagged line cut across the protruding bone. Sherlock came home with more scars than he'd left with, but John has not asked about any of them. He knows what it means to be broken. Sometimes he wishes it had been him instead.   
  
"Why?" he breathes, old enough to know better. It is out of his mouth before he can stop himself.   
  
Sherlock hooks his heels around the back of the sofa and uses his hand on John's leg to pull himself up. He twists to lie on his back, curls an inky spill against the couch cushions and grazing John's thigh as he stares up into his face. His brows furrow at what he finds there.  
  
"Oh, John," he chides. His voice is fond. "No."   
  
John flicks his tongue against the cracked skin of his lips. "Sherlock-"  
  
"You met me and then shot a man with barely a day in between." Sherlock's eyes are sharp, too close to escape. John stares down at him with his heart in his throat. "Why?"   
  
"I-... to save you, and-... that wasn't what we were talking about."  
  
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Isn't it? You held no remorse. You'd killed before. You will again.” He carefully ignores John’s unamused snort. “But you were doubly glad because you felt that you had saved me in a spiritual sense. That you had protected my innocence in some way by preventing me from having to commit murder myself."   
  
John frowns and tips his head back against the cushions again; he can't think and look at Sherlock at the same time. "Not spiritual," he protests weakly.   
  
"Irrelevant. You understood what I meant." Sherlock exhales sharply. "Caring is not an advantage, John. You would have been a distraction."   
  
John's jaw juts out of its own accord as he straightens to look down at him. "Sherlock. I could have helped you. I could have-... I thought you were dead, I had to go back to my therapist and I was  _miserable_ , Sherlock, you can't-"  
  
"I can." Sherlock's voice is dangerously flippant, and he stands with a flourish of his dressing gown and an angry whirl. John aches to grab a hold of him and shake him, hard.  _Idiot_ , he wants to shout.  _You idiot_. "Don't tell me I don't know what it was like for you, John."  
  
He is gone before John can respond.  
  
  
\----  
  
  
Christmas Eve finds John slipping over frozen puddles, the flutter of Sherlock's coat far ahead of him as they chase a mid-level member of a major crime syndicate through the crowds of the West End. They duck into a theatre, Sherlock bellowing ' _Police!_ ' at the top of his lungs as high-end socialites and fascinated tourists are shoved in every direction. John makes his usual apologies as he trails behind, breathing hard and trying to see through the crowd. They stumble down a staircase and into the basement, and John loses them in a maze of hallways and prop boxes.  
  
"Sherlock?"   
  
No answer.  
  
" _Sherlock!_ "  
  
"Oh, do hurry up!"   
  
John follows the breathy sound of his voice left and down another hall. The fluorescent bulbs crackle unsteadily, creating strange shadows behind crates and miscellaneous set pieces. A loud crack sounds from the other end, followed by a familiar cry.  
  
"Sherlock!"  
  
When he pushes through the mess he finds Sherlock's silhouette, back curved as he stoops over an unconscious man sprawled across the cold grey floor. A bruise is already developing on the man's cheekbone, and John curses softly and moves forward to check the suspect's vitals.  
  
And then Sherlock turns around and there is blood all over his temple, streaming down his face in bright red rivulets and suddenly  _'Oh, Jesus, no'_ and Sherlock is bleeding and John. Cannot. Breathe.  
  
Somewhere, someone is speaking to him, but all John can see is red; his vision has gone, heart thundering hard against his chest as cold fingers grab him, press hands to either side of his face. His fingertips are pressed to a warm, healthy carotid, and John gasps and smells iodine and formaldehyde, chocolate digestives and tea and the crisp scent of home, Sherlock,  _Sherlock alive_. He lets out a bracing sob.   
  
"John, John, John please..." Sherlock chants, and John gasps and buries his face into Sherlock's goddamned scarf, inhales deep, sweat and fear, and refuses to be embarrassed. Sherlock stiffens for a moment before rubbing small circles across his shoulders, and all the while John tries to catch his breath and remember that  _It's Fine_ , _Everything Is Fine_ , _Sherlock is Fine_ , and Sherlock will not stop whispering "I'm sorry."   
  
  
\----  
  
  
"He got you good, didn't he?" Greg laughs later. They are perched on the back of an ambulance as per usual, wrapped in orange shock blankets and shivering in the cold. Sherlock's jaw tightens as he glances towards John.  
  
"He deserved it for running off on his own," John mutters. He knows his ears are red at the tips, eyes swollen red, but he hopes Lestrade will credit it to the cold.   
  
Greg chuckles. "Fair enough." He glances out into the busy street, swarming with police trying to keep the crowds clear. "Well. He's definitely going to flip, so we should have Malone in custody within a day or so. There's no way for him to flee the country now that there's so much scrutiny. I expect the theatres are safe now."   
  
Sherlock sneers. "Yes, because the well-to-do socialites are so starved for entertainment. What a pity you'll never see their property returned." His tone could cut diamonds. John smiles wryly and watches him stretch. "You won't be able to hold Malone without testimony, so I'd advise you to make sure he isn't killed." He pauses before tossing the blanket aside. "John isn't feeling well. We're leaving."   
  
Greg frowns. "Now wait a minute, I still need your-"  
  
"I could have a concussion, remember?" Sherlock points to his forehead, and John stifles the urge to laugh. "We need to return home immediately. Happy Christmas."   
  
Sherlock strides off to hail a cab, and John shakes his head and stands. "Happy Christmas, Greg."   
  
The detective smiles wryly. "I expect to see you at the yard within the next two days," he warns. And then, because he is actually rather good at his job despite whatever Sherlock says, "You alright, there?"  
  
"'Course," John mutters, slinking after Sherlock. He doesn't dare look Greg in the eye.   
  
  
\----  
  
  
John is not surprised to wake up gasping at four the next morning, covered in sweat and trembling down to the very meat of his bones. For the past year he has dreamt more of bloody pavements and dark torture chambers than Afghanistan, Moriarty a grinning Cheshire standing over a bloodied body mangled beyond recognition. In the strange half-dream state that exists after a night of frantic violence and two hours of nightmares, he is similarly unsurprised to find Sherlock perched at the foot of the bed, long torso bent over John's as if to shield him or perhaps to examine the images flashing through his eyes. The bow of his violin dangles languidly from one hand, the other wrapped around John's ankle and brushing lightly over the bone there. John hums a mangled hello.  
  
He cannot see Sherlock's expression in the darkness, the only light streaming in from the hall and painting a stripe across his ear, his hair, the fine ridge of his cheekbone. John has the sudden urge to trace it with his fingers. With the half-awake logic of dreams, he does.  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes and leans into the touch before pulling away again, leaving nothing but the phantom feel of cool curls against his fingers and John wondering if he is still sleeping. He whispers softly, "You should move out."   
  
 _What?_  John scrambles up in a panic, snapping into full awareness. He reaches out to grab hold of Sherlock's arm. "I'm sorry, I'll try- I mean, I didn't mean-"  
  
"Shhh." Sherlock presses him back into bed, face hidden in the dark. He smooths a hesitant hand over John's forehead. "I _meant_  you should leave. Me. It would be best for you-"  
  
"No."   
  
Sherlock pulls back, putting space between their bodies. It is the exact opposite of what John needs, and he is unreasonably glad when Sherlock's hand returns to his ankle. Thoughtful strokes run over the bone.   
  
"Please," John whispers blearily, and Sherlock sighs and says nothing.   
  
Then, once John cannot keep his eyes open, "I'm sorry."  
  
John wishes Sherlock would stop apologising. It would make it easier to forget that everything is wrong between them. He opens his mouth to tell him this, but he never manages to get the words out.   
  
When he wakes up he is utterly alone.  
 

 


	2. Bandages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm posting this later than I'd meant to, sorry. Got caught up with work.
> 
> If there's interest in an attempt to write past this point I'd be willing, but the ending seems content to sit as it is imo. Let me know.

  
  
  
  
For a month, there is bliss. Sherlock has three cases, and in the downtime they go out to dinner and laugh together. John begins dating one of the waitresses from their favourite French restaurant, and for a moment he deludes himself into thinking everything is alright again. Sherlock has never seen the original Batman movies before; John introduces him to the wonders of Michelle Pfeiffer in a catsuit, and Sherlock makes derisive comments about American culture. Things are normal. John pretends he doesn't have an aneurysm at the sight of Sherlock leaping across rooftops as they chase after a cat burglar and is rewarded with a movie reference. He refuses to wonder why Sherlock has not deleted the experience.  
  
February's first Friday finds John at the sink, elbow-deep in soap as he clears away the various containers littering the counter without thinking too hard about the residue he finds. He'd set his alarm without remembering that Dr. Kumar was back from surgery this week, stumbling blindly into the bathroom with his shirt on inside out before realising he had nowhere to go. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, presumably asleep at six a.m., and so John had made himself a cup of tea and resolved to not waste the morning. He was too keyed up to go back to sleep, anyway; Elle had sent him home with little more than a kiss goodnight, and John is settling into the familiar routine of perpetual blue-balls; if this is his penance for Sherlock's survival, he thinks he can handle it. He tries not to think about what that logic really means.  
  
Thus when noon rolls around John has cleaned the entire flat to the best of his ability and is finishing up the last of the dishes. The bills are paid, the blog has been checked, and he is debating the pros and cons of vacuuming and potentially waking up a sleeping Sherlock when the man stumbles through the front door, dark circles surging under his eyes and the barest hint of stubble threatening at the corners of his jaw. He looks an utter mess, and John blinks over his shoulder and watches Sherlock amble into the kitchen. He barely acknowledges John is in the room.  
  
"What happened? I thought you were sleeping." John pulls his hands out of the sink and rinses the soap residue off, medical training kicking in as he scrubs his nail beds. Sherlock is too tired to even tease, and he brushes up behind John to pull a mug from the drying rack. His suit slips above his wrist, and John freezes.  
  
There is an angry red mark twisting around the birdbones of Sherlock's arm, a mangled network of cuts and bruises that John knows intimately as several layers of rope burn. For a moment John is in a darkened room, watching Moriarty visit pain after pain upon Sherlock's trembling body, figure wracked with lacerations. He grabs Sherlock's other wrist to look at that, too.  
  
"John."  
  
John feels like his stomach is trying to crawl up out of his throat.  _I can't keep doing this._  He turns Sherlock's wrists over, inspecting the damage. Tied up for at least two hours, Sherlock struggling against the restraints the entire time.  _You can't do this to me anymore_. They haven't been treated, have been left like this for at least five hours, and John  _knows_  that Sherlock must have sat through hours of paperwork and questioning at the Yard without telling a soul he was in agony. It looks like Sherlock barely took five minutes to clean the wound.  _You left me behind once, and I thought, I thought-_  
  
" _John._ That hurts. _"_  
  
John snaps up, blinking rapidly. Sherlock's mouth is pressed into a thin line of pain, but his eyes are sharp as ever. John loosens his grip and finds the grace to look chagrined, but checks the temperature of the faucet and forces Sherlock's wrists under a stream of cool water. For once, Sherlock submits without complaint.  
  
"What happened?" John's voice is low, and even he can hear the anger in it. He forces himself to be gentle as he clears the remaining fibres out.   
  
"John-"  
  
"What  _happened_ , Sherlock." His voice is too loud, and he flicks his tongue against his lips. He risks a glance at his flatmate.  
  
Sherlock inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. His eyes spark clear dissent. "Capture, threats. The usual. Lestrade arrived in time."   
  
"Why didn't you text me?" John can hear how pathetic he sounds, a barely-suppressed whine in the back of his throat. He can't bring himself to care. He thought they'd discussed this, that they'd come to some sort of agreement; clearly he was wrong. "Have you taken anything for the pain?"   
  
He glances over his shoulder in time to catch the slow twist of Sherlock's lips, pale skin papering into the perfect sneer. "I did text you. You were on a  _date_."  
  
John ignores the stab of guilt driving through his chest and turns off the water. "I would have come if you said it was important."  
  
Sherlock laughs cruelly, barely flinching as John pats the abused skin dry. He stretches his swollen fingers as John gets the kit down from the cupboard.   
  
"You understood me, once."   
  
His voice is pitched to perfect dismissal, and oh, that hurts. The implied  _but not anymore_  is a sharp pang echoing in John's lungs, a painful tingling growing behind his nose.  
  
"What?" His voice sounds faint, even to his own ears; his throat feels thick and strangled.  
  
Sherlock is too busy snarling derisively to comment. John doesn't know whether he should be glad or furious. He takes Sherlock's wrists in careful fingers and begins to rub an antiseptic salve into the red skin.  
  
"As much as I hate to agree with Mycroft, we fight a constant war, John." He reclaims his limbs and steps away, moving back when John reaches for him. His expression is etched in disgust, and John finds himself speechless. "It's  _always_  important."   
  
John's mouth snaps shut. His entire body is strung like a raw nerve. Sherlock feels miles away.   
  
"Let me bandage your wrists at least-"  
  
Sherlock laughs, a dark mirthless noise. John hates it intensely. "They've seen much worse."   
  
John snarls and swipes a hand across the counter.  
  
"Jesus,  _what the fuck_  do you  _want_ from me?!"  
  
The kit is on the floor, plasters and ointment scattered all over the kitchen tile. John is gulping air through his nose, and Sherlock is perched on the balls of his feet in the doorway, ready to flee to his room. For a moment John feels as if this is the same argument they have been having for the past six months, the same argument they will have every time the way Sisyphus will always end up at the bottom of the hill again. John does not know how it came to this; Sherlock not trusting him despite everything he has done, despite the fact that it was Sherlock who played dead and then miraculously returned asking for John's forgiveness. John should not be the one feeling guilty.   
  
"I always considered you above the average, John. Clearly I have made an error in judgement."   
  
John's breath catches before he pauses, a bleary dream coming to mind. "Is this you trying to bully me into leaving?"   
  
Sherlock blinks, mask slipping before contempt slides back in. "Tch. Please, John, as if-"  
  
"Don't play games with me." Sherlock pauses and clears his throat, and John suddenly has to fight back the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. "Sherlock, I... come here."  
  
John watches him for the few moments it takes him to process the request. He can see the gears turning in that beautiful brain of his, and John just wants this all to be over so they can go back to what they do best. After an eternity Sherlock steps back into the kitchen, and John presses him into a chair. He watches carefully as John gathers up the essential parts of the first aid kit and lines them up on the edge of the dining table, the few spots not obscured by petri dishes and Erlenmeyer flasks. When he's finished he pulls a chair across from Sherlock and sits down, gathering the pale, injured wrists into his lap and beginning to work the salve into the wounds again. Sherlock winces at the pain, and for a moment they sit in the silence together. John studies his hands as he does so, noting the violin calluses and the scars around the fingertips from all the times he'd been careless with acid and fire, cigarettes and knives. Sherlock's body is a tapestry of neglect, and for a moment John wonders how many people have stopped to try and take care of him, to patch him up when he was broken inside or out. Sherlock had fixed him, all those years ago. Maybe now that they were both broken, they needed to fix each other. It was a nice thing to consider, at least.  
  
"I'm glad you're alive."   
  
Sherlock lets out a short huff of laughter, and John tilts his head to look up into his face. Sherlock's eyes are tight at the corners.   
  
"I am. I'm glad you're alive and I'm grateful for what you did. No matter what." Sherlock is still under his fingers, eyes trained on John's hands. He takes this as a good sign. "I'm glad you're with me. I'm glad you came back." He exhales softly, thinking of Mycroft's opinions on bravery. The kindest word for stupidity, he'd said. "You were- no, you  _are_  the best thing that ever happened to me. You saved my life-"  
  
"John, stop it."  
  
John pauses at Sherlock's dismissive tone, putting the ointment aside and reaching for the gauze. He knows him well enough to know when his irritation is really embarrassment. "And no matter what I say or what you leave in the fridge or how many nightmares I have, if you think I'm just going to walk out of here because it'll be  _easier_...? Then... then you're too much of an idiot to be proper a genius."   
  
He stops when Sherlock begins to shake under his hands, but when he looks up he can see it's badly suppressed laughter. After a moment John joins in, chest loosening painfully as they lean against each other.   
  
They hold each other up.


End file.
